Hope, Humor and the Supernatural

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drug abuse

Satisfaction cut through the engraved stress marks on his face that belied his young years when he received the invite to Nashville. He had earned it. Rough schedules, racking up miles across the country, opening shows with a mixture of envy and admiration for those who had paid their dues.

Billed as the new Hank Williams Senior those close to him shuddered at the commonality.

Blinding lights, applause, screams, hands reaching to touch him played in his head. He splashed water onto his face and patted down his hair. The paraphernalia used earlier set on the counter beside the sink. He forgot to put it away in the guitar case, he told himself. He wouldn’t acknowledge that he left it out to use. The effect didn’t last that long and he needed it just before he walked on stage.

“Fifteen minutes,” the chauffeur said through the phone. Muscles tightened. His stomach quivered with nausea. He washed white pills down with beer and gulped bourbon from the bottle before going into the bathroom one last time. Before the show, before walking onto that famous auditorium rebuilt with pieces of the original wood.